


Bonus Challenges!

by i_claudia



Series: summer pornathon 2013 [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Summer Pornathon 2013, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the bonus challenges from Summer Pornathon 2013. All short, mostly silly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge Three: Costume Party

"This is the worst idea you've ever had," Arthur says grimly.

Morgana shushes him. "Don't ruin the surprise. He'll be along any minute now." She peers off down the hallway, but the library is silent.

"Seriously," Arthur says, readjusting the pink sparkly wings where they're digging into his spine. "The worst."

"Nonsense." Morgana straightens the tiara on his head and wipes an expert thumb beneath his eye -- stray glitter, Arthur assumes. 

"I'm wearing a _diaper_."

"It's a loincloth," Morgana reminds him with a severe look. "Do hold your bow up a little more, Arthur. You could at least _try_ to channel the God of Love."

"I'll channel whatever I want." It comes out sulkier than he'd intended, and Morgana doesn't bat an eye.

"Here he comes," she hisses at him, ducking back around the corner. She throws one hand out once she's hidden, prodding him in the lower back with one sharp nail. "Go!"

"I hate you," he mutters, shuffling forward. "I hate you so much." He straightens, though, holding the bow and arrow out before him, and waits for Merlin to look up from the book he's reading and notice Cupid, ready to strike.


	2. Challenge Four: Career Day

Merlin's the best goalie in the league; he's got no time for useless modesty about that. His stats speak for themselves, and the press does the rest. He just wishes someone else would recognize that -- someone specific. Someone like, oh, say, his captain.

He leans his forehead against the window of the car, and lets the sound of Arthur's voice wash over him, ignoring the twinges of his bruises and the vicious ache in his wrenched knee. Arthur's monologues are soothing as long as he doesn't listen to the words: after a win, Arthur likes to talk over every single bad play, every mistake anyone on the team made, the openings they missed, the shots Merlin almost or did fail to block.

(After a loss, Arthur goes into the showers after a terse session with the press, and stays there until Merlin's sure he's drowned.)

He only shakes himself out of his almost-doze when Arthur pulls up in front of his house. "Merlin?"

"Right, going," Merlin says. "Thanks for the ride."

"Rest that knee," Arthur advises him. "I want you back before the game next week."

Merlin mutters a reply, reaching for the door, but Arthur's hand on his elbow stops him.

"I mean it," Arthur says. "We'd be nothing without you." He's too earnest for Merlin to stomach a snide reply -- the most Merlin can do is avoid meeting his eyes. Arthur's only saying the words because he's trying to be a good captain; he's always put the team first. That's been made abundantly and repeatedly clear to Merlin.

"Merlin." Merlin can't help but twitch when Arthur's fingers slide from his elbow to his wrist, wrapping delicately around the bones. "Look at me."

"What?" Merlin asks, shooting for exasperated and landing somewhere around embarrassingly hopeful, instead.

"Rest your knee," Arthur says, pulling Merlin in by the hand until he's close enough for a kiss. It's a quiet kiss, sweet and careful and beautifully honest. Arthur doesn't let him go when it's finished, lingering with their cheeks brushing instead, Merlin's shaggy hair tickling his nose. "I'll miss you."

"You see me every day," Merlin objects, but he doesn't pull away.

"I won't sleep tonight," Arthur tells him. "I never do, when you're not there."

Merlin feels himself weaken and fall, his defensemen helpless when Arthur knows his every play so well. "Then stay," he says, a murmur in Arthur's ear, and can't bite back his smile when Arthur shuts off the engine.


	3. Challenge Five: Getting Tipsy

Arthur can hear them whispering outside his door. He pulls a pillow over his ears, but it doesn't help much.

"Willllllllllllll. I want to sleep."

"Merlin! Stop, no, shit, get away from there--"

"It's my room!" Merlin sounds outraged. Arthur stares at his ceiling and cultivates a healthy, righteous anger because it's 3am and there are drunk underclassmen at his door even though one of them knows he has an exam at 8. He pictures burning the building down. He's pretty sure the curtains would catch.

"Merlin! What the fuck!"

There's a scuffle at the door, and Arthur half-rises out of bed, but it's too late. He doesn't know how the fuck they got in, but they're inside now, stumbling over each other and giggling, blinding him as they flip the lights on. Suddenly, there's a face right up next to his, wide-eyed and beaming.

"Arthur!"

Arthur strives for unimpressed and ends up with a peevish: "What the fuck are you doing?" 

Merlin grins and grins and grins at him. "I think I'm drunk!" he confides in the loud whisper of the truly smashed. He's wearing an awful hat Arthur suspects is hand-knitted; it has earflaps, and he's clutching at the dangling strings. He looks ridiculous. "The world's all -- weird." He squints at Arthur's face, still grinning. "I can't quite focus my eyeballs? Does that mean I'm drunk?"

"Jesus Christ," Arthur says, looking past Merlin's shoulder. Will is listing against his desk, one eye closed. "What the fuck happened to you two?"

Will waves a hand and has to put it back down quickly to balance himself. "Gwaine," he says. "There was, like. Ping-pong. No. Beer pong! With beer. And Kings. And stuff."

"I don't like Kings," Merlin tells Arthur sadly. He lays a cheek on Arthur's mattress. "Elena's mean. I drank my little green man on accident and I forgot to do the Viking cheer. Vikings are _stupid_." 

"There was 151," Will explains, and Arthur looks at him in horror. "Merlin said he wanted to try a little of my drink, and then it was gone."

"Malibu's nice," Merlin says. He gives Arthur a dreamy look up through his eyelashes. "I like Malibu."

"Of course you do," Arthur says, feeling lost. Will's laughing. 

"Oh my god," Will wheezes. "Oh my -- fuck, it was so funny, no one could find Merlin, and then Gwen opened the closet, and boosh! There was Merlin! With the Malibu!" He doubles over, struck down by the utter hilarity he apparently finds in that. Arthur finds zero reason to laugh about that story; in fact, he's seriously considering convening a special session of student government to consider a petition for a dry campus.

Merlin hums, happy and off-tune. "Boosh!"

"Boosh," Arthur says darkly. "Will, get the fuck out of my room. Go drink a shitload of water and go to bed. Merlin--"

"Don't make me leave. 'S comfy here."

Arthur sighs. "Merlin."

"I'll be so quiet! You won't even know I'm here!" Merlin shuts his eyes. "See? I'm invisible."

Arthur climbs out of bed and pushes Will out into the hall, making sure the door actually locks this time. "Here," he tells Merlin, who's already climbed into his bed and snuggled into the warm spot. "Drink this." Merlin manages the water bottle well enough, and Arthur can't quite help himself reaching out and taking the awful hat off, combing his fingers back through Merlin's hair. Merlin smiles up at him and leans into the touch, like a cat.

"You know, I don't remember signing up for this the first time I invited you to dinner and a movie," Arthur says, and Merlin grabs at his shirt, pulling him down to the bed. 

"Best boyfriend," he says, his eyelids drooping.

Arthur arranges himself a little awkwardly on the bed, careful not to jostle Merlin too much; Merlin curls up against him as soon as he stops moving.

"You're lucky I am."

"Yep," Merlin says, settling his head on Arthur's shoulder. "Yyyyeeep." He's out like a light after that; Arthur knows 8am is going to be excruciating, and he's going to have to have a serious chat with Gwaine, but Merlin's solid warmth along his side is better than any sleeping pill, just like always.


	4. Challenge Six: Colors

Morgana's got a black leather jacket, which she uses as a weapon. She's had it since her university days; true vintage, none of this wannabe shit the chains sell, made out of plastic and sold as "vegan" to make it sound a little less like it'll fall apart in three days. No, her jacket is butter-soft, still heavy with the intoxicating smell Italian leather never seems to lose, and when she slides it over her bare shoulders, she knows it's an armor nothing can stand up to. Knees turn weak before it. Arguments fade away. Arthur's the only person in the world who'd dare give her trouble while she's wearing it, and his immunity is nothing more than a paper wall, built up over long years of contact. She could break it, if she wanted to, but she's not concerned with Arthur tonight.

She zips the jacket up over her green lace bra and nothing else, not bothering to check herself in the mirror before she goes -- she already knows how she looks. She leaves the bedroom an inviting mess, warm red sheets just rumpled enough to encourage someone to climb back in. 

Gwen's just coming out of the shower as she passes, and she snags Morgana by one sharp corner of her lapel. "You're wearing that?" Gwen asks appreciatively. Her dressing gown hangs open; Morgana steals the opportunity to touch, sliding a hand along the warm damp skin of Gwen's waist. "Poor boy won't know what hit him." 

"I can't stay; I'll be late," Morgana says, but she holds Gwen close and kisses her anyway, slow and deep, a promise to hold for later. "You should always be naked."

"Go on," Gwen says, laughing, pushing her away and tying her dressing gown closed, covering her gorgeous breasts with dark blue silk. Morgana could spend a lifetime worshiping those breasts, but she leaves instead, stealing one more quick peck for the road. Some of her lipstick has smeared off on Gwen's lips; she likes that. She likes knowing that Gwen will leave it there, holding her place until she comes back, just as the sweetness of Gwen's scent on her fingers reminds her that this short trip is nothing more than a pause.

She takes the motorcycle instead of one of the cars because she can already imagine it, the way he'll press against her, the tightness of his grip which he'll later try to pretend wasn't a thrilling sort of fear. It's twilight when she pulls up outside his apartment -- teetering on the edge of seedy, with just enough take-away crumbs and roommate fights ground into its grey carpets to affirm its status as a first apartment in a university town -- and sees him already waiting, sitting outside and scuffing his heels against the kerb.

Morgana finds that when she wears the jacket, she hardly ever needs to wait for anyone.

"Impatient, Mordred?" she asks, taking off her helmet and raising her eyebrow at him.

He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. "Holy shit."

She takes that as the compliment it is. "Don't just stand there. Gwen's waiting." She reaches out to stroke her fingers along his cheek, feeling the scratch of the stubble there. "She sends her regards."

He grabs her hand and holds it to his face, turning into her palm and inhaling deeply. She knows he must smell it; knows he must be _thinking_ about it, Morgana's fingers sunk deep in Gwen's cunt -- he must be thinking about the way Gwen tastes, remembering the breathless, desperate noises she makes when she's about to come. Morgana reels him in before he's recovered, gives him just enough of a kiss to leave him wanting more. She leaves lipstick on his mouth.

"Let's go," she says, and he moves eagerly, swinging a leg over the bike and pushing up close behind her. "Get your helmet on." His arms are firm around her waist, his dick pressed against her ass as they ride, and if she speeds a little bit faster than usual, well. She has two warm and darling bodies for her bed tonight; no one could blame her. Especially not while she's wearing the jacket.

She revs the engine, and smiles at Mordred's whoop behind her as they race on home through the blue and gathering night.


	5. Challenge Seven: Gay Pride

Merlin makes sure he arranges his leave accordingly every year. Sometimes he can't help it -- the demands of the service, after all -- but he takes the whole week when he can. He leaves his uniform behind; the part of him which it belongs to is just as sacred to him as the part he celebrates this week, but he's found it's best to carry it unobtrusively. A navy man's uniform at _this_ parade is inevitably misinterpreted. Salaciously -- even hilariously -- but after that one year where Arthur got into a fight over him and ended up in A &E, he prefers to wear a different sort of uniform. 

Besides, the rainbow stripes are really rather lovely. 

Arthur meets him off the plane or the dock or wherever he gets in, beaming and wrapping him up in a bear hug to spin him right around until they're both dizzy, and after one solitary night in luxury where neither of them get any sleep, they're off: in Merlin's case, fully beglittered and in neon knee socks with the tiniest shorts he can find. Arthur prefers to be slightly more sedate, but he does submit to glitter on each cheek -- how can he refuse, when it's accompanied by the sweetness of Merlin's kisses?


End file.
